


The DS, the Jukie, and the Government

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, turn-ups on his jeans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my first run at DS Greg Lestrade's first contact with the Holmes boys. I was determined to prove that the turn-ups on someone's jeans COULD be used as a clue, and a pivotal point in a deduction. Eventually I will find a use for every last facetious "HA! We don't have to explain this one!" stupid non-deduction that Moftiss throw into the air (and then run like hell from).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The DS, the Jukie, and the Government

**Mycroft meets Lestrade**

 

Greg Lestrade snapped the handcuffs shut and steadied the man, tipping him back so that his forehead wasn’t resting against the wall, then having to grab his shoulders to keep him from falling backwards. “Come on, take it easy.”

“I have been. I have been taking it very easy indeed. This is all so very easy. You’re easy. Child’s play. Those children. Child’s play.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, suppressing a sigh, putting one hand on each of the lanky man’s shoulders from behind, and steering him toward the car. “Here we go, that’s it, now just wait here.” He propped the man against the driver’s door.

“You have to look in his jeans.”

Lestrade paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked up at the man. He was taller than Lestrade, lanky, thin, like most of the drug-users he saw, with eyes a little too small, as though squeezed out by his impossibly high cheekbones. His shaggy brown hair needed a wash and a cut before it would pass as unkempt, falling in tangled curls down over his forehead and ears. He was wearing a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms under a thin, shiny dressing gown. Balancing the gaunt face, his lips were full, plump, slightly parted as he stared past Lestrade at the other police car, where one of the other officers had a teenaged hoodie bent over the car’s bonnet with his hands stretched out to be searched.

“They’re patting him down,” Lestrade said calmly, choosing the safer of the two possible meanings for what the junkie had said. “If he’s got anything on him, they’ll find it.”

“No, it’s too small. They’re never going to look in the right place.”

Lestrade had the door open now, but stopped, taking another look at the junkie. He was smiling now, to himself, clearly enjoying the scene playing out around him. Another youth was already in the back of the other car, and from the sound of it, he was still shouting. The two had been caught largely thanks to the junkie, who had blundered into the street directly in front of them as they’d run past. The confusion had slowed them enough for Lestrade to tackle the slowest, and when he’d looked up, this stick figure in a dressing gown had somehow got his belt around the other’s waist. There was a chunky folder on the sidewalk nearby, which had turned out to be a tablet computer. 

Lestrade had seen the pair come tearing out of the estate and taken up the chase even before he heard the shouting. He couldn’t tell which of them was shouting what, but there was anger and fleeing and, if no guilt yet, there would be if the lead runner was caught by his pursuer. 

And then there had been the bumbling junkie, and it had all gotten much noisier, with shouted accusations, denials, threats, and warnings. And a lot of yelling about jeans.

“So you want me to take off his jeans,” Lestrade said, his hands still on the frame of the open car door. “Right now, here?”

The pale eyes never left the sight of the youth now being turned around and questioned about the contents of his pockets. Lestrade was about to repeat the question, then he saw the ridiculous lips quirk up on one side in a smile. 

“Oi.” He clicked his fingers, trying to get the man’s attention. “Hey - oh...” He turned aside.

The man glanced at him, and Lestrade was ready, his torch out, snapping the beam into the eyes, the pupils so dilated he couldn’t even tell the colour of the rim of iris visible. _“Nice,”_ he said with a grin. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to look at a police officer with a face like that.”

“For heaven’s sake, of course I don’t mean you should strip him.”

“Look, mister, just keep your eyes on my finger, eh?” He held it out in front of the man’s face, but he was already back to watching the other handcuffing. 

“I’ll make you a deal, sergeant. Detective sergeant. I’ll have a nice quiet sit down in the back of your car, here, and wait while you go over there and look in the turn-ups of his jeans. The one with the paint chips in his turn-ups is your thief.”

Lestrade pulled his finger back, tipping his head to study him. “And why do you say that?”

“You saw them come running out of the estate. There was scaffolding all over the building, due to be repainted. One of these boys climbed the scaffolding, got in a window, nicked his mate’s tablet but was seen. He legged it out the window while the other went out the door, hoping to cut him off. I couldn’t see faces from my basement window, neither could you, picking up the chase as you did.”

Lestrade looked back and forth from the junkie to the youth. “Okay. Get in.” He stepped back, stretched out an arm. The junkie cocked his head and smiled at him, then bumped himself away from leaning against the car, and sauntered toward the back seat, sitting neatly on the edge and ducking his head to fold himself inside with his hands still cuffed behind him. Lestrade shut the door and backed away, then turned to stride over to the other car. 

“Excuse me,” he called, waving his hand as they lead the second youth around the vehicle. “Hang on, I’ve just got to check something.” He jogged closer as they all turned to look at him, pulling a latex glove out of his pocket.

“Got a problem with the druggie?” the PC holding the car door asked with a cocky grin.

Lestrade glanced at him, but didn’t bother to respond. “Just hold him for a minute.” He knelt down in front of the suspect.

“Get off me, man!” the youth yelped, jumping back as Lestrade snapped the glove on.

“No, no, hold him still!” Lestrade ordered the PC, and grabbed hold of one of the teen’s legs. He ran his hand down the leg to where the jeans had been folded up - probably a charity shop purchase, as the hem was already a fringe of frayed thread, but the folded edge was just starting to develop its own holes where it dragged the ground behind his heels. Lestrade ran his fingers around carefully in the pocket of fabric, but felt nothing but threads. By this time, everyone was mystified by what he was doing, and the youth didn’t even think to pull away as Lestrade reached for his other leg and checked again with the same result. He looked up. “Okay. Now open the door.” He walked around the car, the PC moving ahead to get the door. The second youth scooted himself over to the edge of the seat and swung his legs out.

“No, no, hold on.” Lestrade held a hand in front of his face to stop him.

“Man, you gotta let me out! I’m tellin’ you, he’s the one -”

“Shut it,” Lestrade said firmly, and knelt to block his path, yanking one of his feet out from under him.

His jeans were turned up exactly as the other’s, but Lestrade’s finger hit something that crackled and broke. He reached in and pulled out a pinch of crumbled magnolia.

He held his bare hand out blindly to the PC. “Bag?” A plastic evidence bag was handed over, and he tipped the fingerful of dried paint into it and sealed it. “There we go.” He straightened suddenly, making the youth in the car tip backwards in surprise. “This one can keep his bracelets.” He let the PC wrestle the boy’s legs back into the car, ignoring the renewed shouting. “And you,” he called to the other. “That’s your tablet?”

“Yeah, man.” 

“But you can’t just...”

“I can if he knows the password,” Lestrade called back, breaking into a grin again as he backed away, then turned back to the strange man in the other car. “Have him boot it up,” he added, circling a finger in the air behind him. 

“Yes, sir.”

He saw the intent posture of the man watching him from the back seat, and met his eyes. There was a smile there, and then the man leaned back, turning away. 

“Hey, Lestrade.” He turned, finding one of the PCs running after him. “Just got a call, there’s been an accident two streets over. You wanna take that, or drive one of these loonie-wagons back to the shop?”

He paused, running his hand over his face. No matter which way he looked, there was paperwork. “Okay. Did they say anyone was hurt?”

“No, just that they’re blocking traffic and there’s some argument going on.”

“Fine, fine. Get this nutter into a holding cell, and have him checked for drugs. I’ve never seen eyes like that before.”

He watched the patrol car pull away, and set off in the opposite direction. Once he got around the corner and onto the main road, however, he broke into a jog. He could see the roadblock caused by one stretch SUV and another enormous black sedan, their tires mounting the kerb on opposite sides of the road. As he neared, the SUV moved slowly off to the side, letting the stream of blocked cars behind it pass. He swore and broke into a run, assuming that the SUV was about to attempt to leave the scene, but it didn’t. It stopped with the left side wheels on the pavement, the whole enormous monster of a vehicle tilted at an angle, and then the driver stepped out and made a show of putting his keys down on the hood, staring in Lestrade’s direction. Then he raised a hand to his ear, nodded, and turned away.

“Oi, what happened here?” Lestrade called to the man. He knew he was close enough now to make himself heard over the traffic, and the man did turn back in his direction, briefly, before once again putting his back to Lestrade. 

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade, isn’t it?”

He twisted aside, stumbling as he tried to see who was speaking. The voice had come from behind him, and he caught his balance on a Belicia beacon. He found himself confronted by a stranger. A government stranger, by the look of him. Something about his grey suit oozed money - maybe the fact that it had a matching waistcoat, with a chain across the front. He was leaning on a full-length umbrella, as well, like something out of Monty Python.

“Where’s your bowler hat?” Lestrade asked, frowning.

“I’m sorry?” The man smiled in polite confusion, lifting his chin. He didn’t need to; he was already a few inches taller, but Lestrade was pleased he didn’t have a monocle to adjust.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, putting his hands into his pockets and taking a step closer. He was still carefully out of reach, but until he knew what was going on, he didn’t want to make anything too easy.

“I wasn’t sure it was your name until you stopped.”

“Okay. Am I right in thinking that’s your car back there?” He jerked his head back, but didn’t take his eyes from the man. He could tell by the traffic moving past that both lanes had now been cleared.

“A minor diversion, I’m afraid.”

_“Minor,”_ he repeated, cutting the man off. “This is _minor,_ is it? Obstructing traffic? Wasting police time? Interfering with a crime scene investigation?”

“I might be assisting,” the man said just as quickly, with no change in his bland, pleasant smile. “How do you know?”

“Okay,” he said, nodding slowly. “Assist.”

“You’ve just arrested a man, one Sherlock Holmes?”

“That’s a daft name.” The man’s smile widened briefly, but he said nothing. “We had suspects taken in for questioning.”

“Assisting the police in their inquiries.” This time Lestrade smiled and said nothing. The man raised his eyebrows, but looked down at the spotless toes of his shoes. “I am referring to the man you found wandering the street in his pyjamas.”

The obvious options were to confirm this, or deny it. If he denied it, and this man turned out to be some official sent to rescue some addled child of privilege, Lestrade was probably going to get a bollocking for lying to rank, or swearing while provoked, or giving the stinkeye with malice aforethought. There was something a little too smug, a little too assured about this man, and he found himself wondering if the Secret Service were another possibility. If the junkie turned out to be some failed experimental drug conditioning programme, and he admitted to having arrested him, he might then find himself in a different kind of trouble for provoking an international incident. Or at least a national one.

Neither of his choices looked enticing, so Lestrade chose neither, and stayed silent. Eventually, the man looked up at him again, a very sharp look from blue-grey eyes that were definitely no longer smiling. “He was driven off in a patrol car,” the man said, in the tone of someone negotiating an unwelcome deal. 

It was time to offer something, clearly, but he still didn’t have enough information to make a decision as to which answer was safe, so he simply smiled and looked down; a move that could possibly be taken as a nod, if you were desperate enough.

“Sergeant, it would be very helpful if you would answer my questions.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” Lestrade said, smiling easily. “I don’t know what this is about, or why you want to know. If this were anything legitimate, I’d suggest you come down to the station with me and we can talk it all over.”

“And if it isn’t?” the man asked calmly.

“Then you have a problem.” As he said it, Lestrade realized that while they were on a public street in broad daylight, this man had managed to maneuver him away from any back-up rather neatly, and the dark windows of the two black vehicles behind him were capable of hiding more than just sin. 

“I’m not going to offer you a bribe, DS Lestrade.”

“Aww.”

“Will you be having his blood tested for drug use?”

“Not unless we arrest him.”

“Good.” Too late, Lestrade realized he’d just given something away, and the game wasn’t over. “And the two other youths - he’s given you some information on them?”

This time Lestrade didn’t have to speak to let the answer slip.  “How -?”

The man smiled. “A hobby. I have some hopes that it will prove useful.”

Lestrade frowned.  “Your hobby, or his?”

“His.”

“Because for you, it’s your job.” Lestrade nodded. He was getting angry now. He’d made two mistakes, and neither one had passed unnoticed. If he was going to even the score, he was clearly going to have to be more aggressive.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did you start teaching him when he was small? Or does it just run in the family?”

The man smiled, this time a genuine one, equal parts surprised and puzzled. “Now, how did you know that?” he asked, shifting his umbrella from hand to hand.

“Was it a secret? Oh, I’m sorry. So are you here to bail him out? Ask me not to press charges?”

“Are there any charges to press?”

“You’re going to have to answer, I’m afraid. I’m kinda done with the evasion.”

He tipped his head, studying Greg carefully, still smiling. “Why are you still a sergeant, I wonder?”

“Still waiting.”

“I have no argument if you wish to charge my brother. Rather the opposite. He has talent, but it is misused.”

“I’m not going to drum up some false charges to settle a petty family squabble.”

“So he’s done nothing wrong? Splendid.”

“I can’t say that,” Lestrade said quickly. “He’s certainly done _something._ But he was very helpful, so I expect doing him for disorderly conduct would be a little ungrateful.”

“Hm. Pity. Well, I look forward to hearing from you, Sergeant,” the man said, smiled briskly, and made to move past him.

Lestrade stepped into his path. The man stopped, looking down at him, the smile disappearing, his eyes narrowed. They were inches apart, a definite invasion of personal space, and neither made a move to step back. 

After a long, aggressive, pause, Lestrade spoke, very quietly and slowly. “Why do you think you’ll hear from me?”

The man stared back at him, his lips pressed together in a firm line. His eyes were a darker grey-blue than the junkie’s had been - from what little of the junkie’s irises had shown - and where another man’s focus would have shifted from eye to eye, his was absolutely still. 

“Because you don’t know my name. You know my brother’s and you have him in custody at the station. You’ll ask him about me, and he may or may not tell you the truth, but you will check up on everything he does say. You resent my manner and my interference, and you will consider putting me under some kind of surveillance, which will do you absolutely no good. You are intelligent and patient, traits which have brought you to the rank of detective sergeant, but you are also determined and wise, which will take you even further. And you are fair. You will discover on your own how useful my brother could be to you, and you are clever enough to couch your suggestion in terms he will find irresistable. With the right guidance, one day he may be a great man. Although I doubt he will ever be very good.”

Lestrade looked away, shaken. It was as though the man could read everything from the back of his brain. Neither of them was going to back off, and he knew the next move was his. He stared for a moment at the hand-written ads in the window of the newsagent’s next to them, taking his time. And then realized.

“Okay...but...” He looked back, and leaned forward slightly, his nose now in biting range of the man’s teeth, forcing him to tuck his chin slightly to look down at him. _“Why_ do you think I’ll contact you, Mister Holmes?”

Anger flared in the blue eyes, and that wasn’t any kind of warning for when the man tipped his head and ducked, his mouth landing squarely on Lestrade’s, the force of the kiss rocking him back just slightly, his tongue sweeping across Lestrade’s lips and then withdrawing as quickly as it had happened. He straightened a little more slowly. “And now we both know.” A quick step back and he’d moved past Lestrade, walking calmly toward the black car a few yards away.

Lestrade watched him in the reflection of the newsagent’s window, refusing to turn and stare. 

  



End file.
